


The Warmth of Your Doorway

by winterkill



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Domestic Fluff, F/M, If you want to read Geralt and Yennefer banging all over Corvo Bianco, Outdoor Sex, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Smut, Table Sex, this is the fic for you!, with a healthy dose of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: "Yen.""Geralt," she replies, "It's good to see you.""Miss me?""Don't flatter yourself; I'm here for the wine," Yennefer laughs, then pauses. “Of course I missed you.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 71
Kudos: 585





	The Warmth of Your Doorway

**Author's Note:**

> Man, that last fic was such fun I had to write another! 
> 
> Title is a line from Hozier's song "It Will Come Back."

_His_ house. 

It took Geralt a few weeks to call Corvo Bianco that. Witchers don't _have_ homes. Kaer Morhen wasn't a home; even wintering there didn't make it feel like home. Witchers slept in their saddles and died when some fucking monster got the best of them. Being a witcher made him not so different from the monsters he exterminated.

 _Monster._ Freak. Mutant. Unable to feel emotions and to make connections with people around him. A solitary life, born of pain and chosen for Geralt before he even understood what the choice robbed him of.

A witcher didn't ride Roach to the local baker to buy bread and cheese. A witcher didn’t build a slightly rickety, but passable table for the kitchen because if Ciri and Dandelion visited simultaneously, there wouldn’t be enough seats. The number of seats at a table is something Geralt has _never_ considered before.

Geralt dreamt, once, of building a home with his own hands, of living there with Yennefer. _A pretty dream_ , she’d called it. It was impossible, and Yennefer knew too.

It seemed more possible.

As Geralt wandered around the house, cleared the wine cellar, and talked to Barnabas, the vintner and the other workers, he allowed himself to daydream about _staying_ here. It was utterly fanciful; Geralt of Rivia couldn’t learn about grape varieties, or spend an entire morning staring at the Toussaint countryside eating freshly baked bread.

But Geralt _does_ it for three whole months. He takes a job if it comes his way, but comes home at the end of each one and watches the sun setting over the vineyard. He reads random, musty books left by the last occupant. Being alone is normal, and maybe he’s a bit restless at the newness of it, but routine finds him easily enough.

That is until Yennefer shows up at his door, stunning as when he last laid eyes on her. She's a constant, and it's more comforting than Geralt could ever express. Yennefer smiles when Geralt embraces her, brings the smell of lilac and gooseberries closer. She surely notices that he buries his nose in her hair.

"Yen."

"Geralt," she replies, "It's good to see you."

"Miss me?"

"Don't flatter yourself; I'm here for the wine," Yennefer laughs, then pauses. “Of course I missed you.”

"Wine is Toussaint's greatest export," he holds her a bit closer. "And wine from Corvo Bianco is well-known, but I wouldn't say this vineyard is up to your standards.”

Yennefer moves out of his embrace to looks around, “It's...rustic.”

"That's Yennefer for _unsightly_."

"Do you find my tastes so offensively discerning?"

 _Yes_.

Yennefer smiles, "You wound me, Witcher, after I came all this way."

“The house has the basics." And it's _his_ to welcome Yennefer into. "I've been having it fixed up, too."

She walks over to the table, pressing her hand onto the corner with the rickety leg and creating a dull _thunk_ against the plank flooring. 

"You made the table?"

"Did you pull that from my head?"

Yennefer shakes her head, "No. This _screams_ Geralt of Rivia craftsmanship."

 _Because it's not skillfully made_ , Yennefer doesn't have to add. What would a house he built even look like? He’d be lucky if the walls held up the roof. She glides her hand over the table, muttering an incantation in Elder Speech that Geralt doesn't catch.

"You improved it," he tells Yennefer.

"Like all things I touch, _especially_ where you're concerned." Yennefer comes back to stand before him, placing a hand on his chest. "It’s alright, though, because the bones are good.” 

Geralt suspects Yennefer is talking about more than just the table.

* * *

There’s no other woman _quite_ like Yennefer of Vengerberg.

Geralt knew it from the moment he first saw her in Rinde. As the building collapsed around them, as he’d realized the sorceress meant to risk her life to achieve her goal, he made his impulsive wish. 

_Bind our fates together._

That he thinks she’s astounding isn’t a secret. Yennefer only needs to peer into his mind at any given moment to find his feelings. She’d known he loved her long before he’d spoken the words. It’s good because Geralt has never been that adept at expressing himself.

Yennefer needs him, as he needs her--something Geralt didn’t understand for a long, long time. She lived decades relying only on herself, told that a sorceress had to be that way in order to survive. Geralt found the feeling echoed in himself, that the loneliness in him, once he admitted it, was something that was Yennefer’s constant companion, too. 

She’s been in the house for a day, and Geralt definitely isn’t lonely.

It echoes their time in Vengerberg all those years ago; the only other time Geralt has spent with Yennefer uninterrupted. Her house in Vengerberg reflected _her_ \--the fondness for luxury, the magical paraphernalia strewn about, the strange absence of things Geralt might imagine a well-stocked home would have. Yennefer’s sheets were silk, and her kitchen was well-stocked with imported wine, but she only had one cooking pot and didn’t own a broom.

Like in Vengerberg, Yennefer uses magic for _everything_. 

Geralt finds her on the first morning, wrapped in a black and white silk robe that’s finer than anything else in the entire house. Her hair is pleasantly tousled; Yennefer looks more elegant than anyone ought to first thing in the morning. She’s standing before the wood-burning stove looking at a teapot, something Geralt is _pretty_ confident he didn’t own.

“Yen.” She turns to him, smiling a bit; Geralt loves that no one else calls her Yen, and that she likes it, too. “Are you...boiling water?”

“You’re so observant, Geralt.” She sounds affectionate.

_What a wonderful thing to wake up to._

“I’d be dead if I weren’t.” He walks up behind Yennefer, slips an arm around her and pulls her against him. It gives him an easy excuse to smell her hair.

“You’re smelling me.”

 _To remember when we’re parted again_. If Yennefer reads the thought, she makes no indication. His witcher medallion is upstairs in the bedroom, but Geralt doesn’t need it to know Yennefer started the stove with magic.

“Do you even _know_ how to light a stove?”

Yennefer scoffs, “ _Of course,_ but why would I do it?”

He can’t argue with that, so Geralt changes the subject, “Are you making...tea?” Does Yennefer even _like_ tea? He hates how he doesn’t even know such a simple, mundane fact. 

“Coffee.”

“Where did you even _get_ coffee?” Geralt had seen it at markets, imported from Ofir, but he rarely has the money to spend on a frivolity he might not even enjoy. Better to spend his limited coin on an inn, or a warm meal.

“Teleportation magic.”

 _Of course._ Geralt sits and watches her pour water from the teapot over the ground beans and through some sort of filter. The coffee drips slowly into the cup. When the first one is done, she pushes it across the table to him.

“Try it.”

He picks up the cup and takes a sip, tasting the bitterness on his tongue. It’s not _bad_ , but Geralt can’t imagine drinking a lot of it at once, not without something to cut the flavor.

“Some people take it with milk, or sugar,” Yennefer supplies.

“I don’t have either of those,” he grumbles; the coffee _would_ be better with milk and sugar.

Yennefer laughs, “Who taught you to keep a house?”

“No one.”

He has bread, though, and cheese, and _lots_ of fucking grapes, so they sit across from one another and eat in a companionable silence. It’s _nice_ , and Geralt has no fucking idea what to do with the sensation. 

“The coffee is a housewarming gift,” Yennefer takes a sip of hers; she clearly finds it more palatable than he does.

“A housewarming gift,” Geralt repeats.

“You have a new house,” Yennefer sounds as though she’s speaking to a child, “And it’s courtesy.”

 _The only thing I want in this house is you._ And a comfortable bed, which he already has–a big, glorious, multipurpose bed.

Yennefer rests her hand on her chin and smiles at him, the slight upward quirk of her lips indicating amusement. It’s a smile that makes Geralt feel _hot,_ like he needs to loosen the laces on his shirt. If Yennefer smiled at him like that across a crowded room, Geralt would murder any man or monster that stood in his way of getting to her.

Right now, there’s only his table separating them; Geralt can build another fucking table.

Yennefer’s smile grows.

“You got _all_ that, didn’t you?”

“You seem like such a simpleton on the outside, but your mind reveals a surprising aggressiveness.”

Geralt made the table imagining not dining alone, so the width of it makes it hard to reach her. Yennefer puts her bare knee on the wooden top and crawls across to the other side, swinging her legs so they’re dangling. The movement pushes up her robe, revealing a generous expanse of the smooth skin of her leg. 

A plate hits the floor in her haste, but Geralt doesn’t give a shit. 

She reaches out to take Geralt’s face between her hands and tilts it up. Their eyes meet for a long, uninterrupted moment. When they kiss, Yennefer tastes like coffee; Geralt likes it better on her lips than by itself.

“Agreed,” she whispers against his mouth.

He stands, pulling Yennefer closer until she wraps her legs around his back. Geralt hears Yennefer’s heart, beating in time with his own, feels the way her fingers grip his shirt, and the familiar way she gasps into his mouth when they break apart for air. _How did I ever, ever think I wasn’t meant to feel this?_ Every inch of Yennefer pressed against him is a sensation--close, and loud, and _human_. 

When Yennefer finally relents, Geralt is breathless and a little dazed. His cock is hard, pressed between them. She realizes it, and smirks.

"Too many clothes," he grumbles, forehead against hers. "I'd rather feel you."

"If _only_ I could do something about that."

Yennefer's filled with tricks, but when Geralt's in a hurry, _this_ is his favorite. A wave of her hand, and her clothes are gone from sight. The first time she used the spell, Geralt nearly ruined the moment by laughing. Yennefer’s skin is smooth under his palms, and her violet eyes are filled with amusement. Geralt is drunk on all the little details that make up her, from her smell, to the way her raven curls tumble over her shoulders. 

_"Yen."_

She's soft but so, _so_ strong. It's a little embarrassing to be choked up over a naked woman in his arms.

"You're _dripping_ in sentiment." She means to sound teasing, but there’s just as much emotion in her voice.

“Why do you never just make _my_ clothes vanish?"

She answers him with a smile, “Because I like undressing you.”

“Maybe I’d have preferred that, too.”

“You’re too impatient.” Yennefer tilts her head up and presses a kiss to his lips, “I’m quite experienced at knowing what you want.”

Geralt kisses Yennefer once more, revels in the feeling of holding her. She tugs at his shirt, slides her hands underneath, tracing the pads of her fingers over the scars that line his skin. He might be content to let her continue with the maddenly innocent touches, but Yennefer is not one to linger; she tugs the shirt over his head and casts it aside. 

Then, she reaches down to free his cock from his pants. 

“Who seems impatient now?”

Yennefer circles him with her hand, skin warm against his; then, a single upward stroke. “Still you, I think.”

“Yen--”

“You’re confident in the sturdiness of the table?”

The pleasure her hand gives him is a prelude, and the thought of _more_ makes his brain fuzzy. He can’t compartmentalize the question Yennefer is asking him. “Very confident,” he manages after a moment.

Yennefer lays back, sends another plate clattering to the floor with her elbow, and moves a basket filled with bread with a wave of her hand. She can break every dish in the damn house--with Yennefer on her back on his kitchen table in the morning sun, Geralt can think of no food or drink he craves more than the woman before him.

She holds out her hand, and Geralt takes it, comes closer and positions himself at the apex of her thighs.

The smile Yennefer gives him is wicked and lovely. “Then show me, but I’ll be _very_ cross if we crash to the floor.”

* * *

The table _doesn't_ break after the first time.

It doesn’t break the second time, either. Or the third. Or the fourth. Geralt stops counting after that.

The armchair, something Geralt felt guilt over spending money on when a wooden stool worked just as well to sit his ass on, can take a remarkable about of abuse. It shows no damage when Yennefer shoves Geralt into in, kneels before him, and makes him grip the upholstery on the arms so tightly he's sure he's going to rip clean through it. Then, Yennefer pins him to it, one knee on either side of him, and moves with such forces the chair creaks; Geralt thinks it’s going to give up the ghost, but it keeps.

Yennefer holds her sweat-damp hair up off her neck and says, “I’ll need to give my regards to the furniture maker.”

“Send him a fucking fruit basket,” Geralt replies.

“I could make him hear us,” she replies cheerfully, “He’d know the quality of his craftsmanship, then.”

“Damnit, Yen.”

The walls are sturdy, too. Geralt wasn’t terribly worried about that; the house stood long before a witcher and a sorceress bumped and crashed into every surface expressing their ardor for one another. It becomes an unspoken land grab--the house is _definitely_ his if he and Yennefer have a variety of sex on, or against, all the flat surfaces.

There’s a spot at the top of the stairs that they keep returning to, especially in the afternoons.

“It’s sunny,” Yennefer explains, glancing back, “and has a nice view of the vineyard."

"Is sex so dull that you need to daydream as a distraction?" He punctuates the sentence with a thrust that has Yennefer grabbing his hand where it rests at her hip.

Spitefully, Yennefer _doesn’t_ scream. Geralt knows she can, knows he’s earned applause for making her.

She _does_ sound a little breathy when she answers, "No, but someone _could_ be watching."

“You’d enjoy that, huh?”

“Like any fantasy, it’s worth exploration.”

Like unicorns, and sex while floating, or in a tree, or any of the dozens other inventive places Yennefer had suggested over the years. 

After, they slide to the floor in a spent heap, Yennefer’s back pressed against his chest. Geralt wraps an arm around her waist. She’s quiet and still for a long moment. Geralt tries to think of sunsets, or flowers, or rainbows--something _nice_ because, after sex, she’ll peer into his head just by the fact that they’re _touching_.

Instead, Geralt longs for the ability to peer inside _her_ head.

“That’s possible,” she turns to look back at him, “but it would only be for a short while.”

“You could just tell me.” He holds Yennefer a bit tighter, afraid she’ll fly away if he asks for too much.

“This house,” she says, “I stand by what I said before--the bones are good.”

“Because we’ve tested the strength of every flat surface over the last week?”

“It’s holding up well, isn’t it?”

 _My house_ , Geralt thinks on repeat. How long would it be before this routine made one of them restless? Witchers were made to wander.

Yennefer is a visitor; he keeps her firmly in that category in his mind. He did the same thing when he lived with her in Vengerberg; if he imagined the situation as temporary, it lessened the wound when it ended.

She knows, surely, what he’s thinking; he also knows unless he speaks the thought, Yennefer won’t address it.

* * *

Geralt told Yennefer the fucking unicorn was welcome; he even left a space where it _could_ go, hypothetically, in the bedroom. Yennefer might not _like_ the placement, but the damn thing would fit.

If Yennefer brings it, though, she’ll insist they _use_ it.

The unicorn isn’t the first of her belongings to appear in the house; that honor goes to a chestnut wardrobe in the bedroom. Geralt stares at it for a long, long time, trying to divine Yennefer's intent. She's not there to answer the question, should Geralt ask it; she left, early that morning, citing the need to run an errand. 

Geralt relies too much on Yennefer reading his thoughts.

So, he stares at the wardrobe, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Yennefer arrived at Corvo Bianco with no bags; Geralt had never seen her carry more than a small satchel, yet she had a new outfit daily. Yennefer was fastidious with her appearance and liked luxury, so of course she was able to manifest entire outfits from thin air.

The wardrobe is more finely-crafted than the rest of the furniture in the house; the dark wood is inlaid with carvings, an ivy pattern that runs below the trim at the top. The handles are brass, and Geralt pulls at one to open the wardrobe.

"Definitely Yen's clothes," he mumbles. Every garment was black, white, or black _and_ white. The fabrics are rich and the designs ornate. Geralt stares at the clothes from a long, long time like they will learn to speak and give him answers.

The second of Yennefer's belongings to appear is a mug on the shelf next to the stove. The mug is porcelain and black with gold around the rim; Yennefer drinks coffee from it while wearing the same flowered robe as the first morning. Geralt dumps milk in his, but refuses sugar.

"You have no taste," Yennefer tells him.

"It's good that you have enough for both of us, then."

Other items appears--a hairbrush, a lacquered comb she uses to pin her hair back, a blanket lined with fur that Geralt remembers from her home in Vengerberg. Magical paraphernalia appear on a table on the landing--a mortar and pestle, a case that holds herbs, a few instruments that Geralt is afraid to ask the use of. 

Yennefer introduces herself to the workers that were at Corvo Bianco when he arrived. She talks with Barnabas about the grape varieties grown in the vineyards.

"Your lady is charming," Barnabas tells him over a game of gwent that he’s winning handily, "When she isn't bursting through doors without introducing herself."

"Yennefer thinks she needs no introduction."

"And she knows her wine," Barnabas replies.

"She has expensive taste."

* * *

A copper tub manifests itself in the bedroom after nearly a fortnight in Yennefer's company; she enchants water from the well and heats it.

"Beats jumping in a cold stream in the woods," Geralt tells her as he soaks in a mountain of warmth and bubbles; the water _never_ gets cold.

"I'd _never._ " 

"Beats smelling like shit," Geralt shrugs, "Get in with me."

"I've got work to do."

" _Later,_ Yen."

Yennefer frowns, hands on her hips, silent for a moment before untying her robe. It slides to the floor in a graceful pool. Yennefer's rarely shy; she stands there, confident, and lets Geralt stare. Her mind is hidden from him, but she can't hide her racing heartbeat or quickened breath from his enhanced senses. For all Yennefer's adventurous notions, she reacts to something as simple as being appreciated.

She joins him, sinks into the sudsy water at the opposite end of the tub. Her legs brush against his as she stretches out and rests her arms on the rim of the tub. It gives him a wonderful view of the upper swell of her breasts above the waterline. Geralt imagines touching them, her skin familiar enough that the task is easy.

Yennefer conjures the lacquered clip into her hand, twisting her hair and pinning it. _That_ isn't magic, but Geralt isn't sure how she does it.

"You spend a lot of time thinking of me."

"There's a lot to think about."

 _"Hmmmm,_ " Yennefer runs the ball of her foot up his thigh under the water. "You always make me dig through your mind. Does it wound you to flatter me aloud?"

"No."

"Pretend I can't read it, then."

 _I want you to live here with me._ Geralt doesn't say that; instead, he chooses something more immediate. "Fine. You're beautiful, and I want to test the limits of this bathtub."

"How?" 

"I think you know." There's a more enticing way of saying that, but she won’t need coaxed. 

Yennefer laughs and comes to him. The space is too cramped, and they splash water over the sides trying to arrange themselves; she ends up on his lap.

"A classic Geralt of Rivia daydream," she touches his hair with her soapy hands. It was wet already, and he sighs at the drag of her nails against his scalp. Yennefer's right--she picks thrilling things, he picks intimates ones, and sometimes they manage both at once.

Despite what Geralt said he wanted, it takes a long time for them to get there. Yennefer rests her cheek against his shoulder, and the moment slows to something quiet and intimate. Geralt frees her hair from the comb and holds it flat in his palm. He could _definitely_ hit the bed if he threw it.

"Don't you _dare,_ " Yennefer warns, holding out her hand. He drops the comb into her palm, and it vanishes.

"Where do you send things when you do that?"

"Your dresser this time," she responds, "but home, usually."

"Vengerberg?"

"Obviously," Yennefer replies, "I lived there."

The past tense of the verb isn't lost to him. Her eyes are closed when he glances down. Then, he's touching her cheek, bringing her mouth up to meet his. There's a conversation behind those words, but Geralt doesn't want to ruin the hopeful feeling--more words don't always make things better.

Kissing, though, _that_ he can't bungle.

* * *

Geralt liked the house before, but after a fortnight passes, as Yennefer litters it with her belongings and fills it with her presence, he starts to _love_ it. It’s not the house in his dream--even the bits Yennefer added onto it that night on Thanedd aren’t right. The two of them won’t be tending sheep or horses, Yennefer isn’t the best of cooks, and Geralt has no idea how to make bagpipes. The details don’t matter. There’s no war to get embroiled in. Ciri is safe and living her life. Yennefer hasn’t expressed any need to leave.

They _have_ to talk--the vagueness between them twists like a knife. He wakes up each morning, expecting to find the bed empty beside him. Last time, _he_ was the one who left, like an idiot, overwhelmed by what he felt for Yennefer. He knew no recourse for that feeling other than to try and put distance between himself and the object of it.

Geralt spent too long avoiding things, running from people, and destiny, and then going through hell to look for them.

He finds Yennefer reading on the patio, reclined on a chaise. The title of the book, embossed on the spine, is too far away for Geralt to read, but it’s probably not a spellbook. For the last week, she’s been reading the shitty two-crown romances she mocks. 

Yennefer claimed Toussaint wreaked havoc on her wardrobe, but Geralt likes the change. It took a few weeks, but she’s found a balance between style and the intense southern sun of the region. There’s still not a drop of color in her sartorial choices, but today’s dress is mostly white, made of a gauzy fabric that leaves Yennefer’s shoulders bare. 

She takes a grape off the plate next to her and pops it in her mouth as she turns a page. The scene is so relaxed that Geralt almost loses his nerve and goes back in the house.

Not glancing away from page, Yennefer calls out, “I know you’re skulking there, Geralt.”

“...Damnit.”

“I thought you detested spying,” she chides when he comes closer; there’s little point in keeping his distance.

“I wasn’t spying,” Geralt knows he sounds sulky, “I was coming to see you and became waylaid.”

Yennefer maintains her courtesies and doesn’t ask _waylaid_ _by what._ Instead, she closes her book, and waits; her violet eyes feel like they’re boring into his very soul.

“Yen,” he takes a deep breath. _Why is it so hard to say what I’ve already said?_ How many times must he die, lose his memories, or be separated from her in order to speak the words easily?

“Geralt,” she replies, much more chipper in her tone.

“I love you.”

Yennefer’s eyes widen, and her smile lights up her whole expression; she’d looked the same when he told her on Thanedd all those years ago. “I love you, too.”

 _No hesitation._ He never doubted her--even at their most fractured, Yennefer’s love wasn’t the problem. If anything, _he_ was the one who doubted his own feelings.

“Do you remember Thanedd?”

Yennefer snorts, “I’m not likely to forget _that_. If it hadn’t turned into a fucking nightmare, I’d at least remember Sabrina Glevissig’s sartorial choices.”

Geralt smirks, “I remember making you scream so loud that we irritated several other guests.” A fond memory, mingled with many not-so-fond ones. 

“One even clapped for us.”

Discussing their shared history bolsters Geralt a bit; he’d been happy, that night, at that awful banquet, because he was in Yennefer’s company. And, later in the night, he’d been even happier in her arms. “You told me, then, that it wasn’t proper to act on a thought you’d read when the words hadn’t been spoken.”

“I feel the same way now. You didn’t see the difference.”

“I thought you knowing was the same was actively telling you.”

“People’s thoughts aren’t always ready to be spoken,” Yennefer pauses, “I wanted to-- _want_ to--hear it, but only when you’re ready to say it.”

“I don’t know shit about wine, but I like this house.” 

_Well, it’s a start._

“It's sturdy and has its charms.” Her violet eyes dart to the house, then back to Geralt, “And the company is quite dashing, and a decent lover.”

“ _Decent_ ,” Geralt repeats, distracted, “I’m fairly more than _decent_.” He knows she’s jesting, an innocent jibe, but he feels the need to point out that nights (and mornings, and afternoons) with Yennefer feel like they should drag the stars from the sky and move mountains. That the earth and heavens around them exist, unchanged, after they’re together, seems a slight to the feelings she gives him, to the feelings he _knows_ he gives her.

Yennefer looks a _touch_ embarrassed at the grand, romantic nature of the thoughts crossing Geralt’s mind. “I think it’s wonderful, too,” she replies.

“This dashing company wants you to stay, so we can keep irritating everyone here.”

The book Yennefer is holding drops to the chaise, bouncing slightly. She comes to him, fingertips pressed against his chest, “I was waiting for you to ask.”

“Quite a long wait,” he mumbles, “And I never took you as a patient women.”

“I’m not,” she answers, “as you well know. Some things just require time, and no force will hasten them.”

“Are you calling me slow?”

“No”

“An idiot, then?”

“Stubborn, with a _touch_ of melodramatic petulance, but it’s not the same with any other.” Yennefer smiles, much softer than usual, and kisses him. “Love me, Witcher.”

Geralt doesn’t make a habit of denying Yennefer’s requests. Even the more outlandish ones usually prove enjoyable or useful. In lovemaking, too, he can’t think of anything he’d refuse her. His errant fantasy about the rope he uses for trophies flashes into his mind, and Yennefer starts laughing.

Up on her tiptoes, she whispers into his ear, "I'd forgotten about that. We never _did_ get to try it; it's so delicious, too."

"Anything."

"And I love that," Yennefer presses her lips against the stubble on his jaw. "It's never dull."

"Most of that is you."

"Only half the credit, surely." Her words are barely a murmur against his lips; then, Yennefer is kissing him. 

Geralt’s hands go to Yennefer's hips, pulling her flush against him. They haven't been terribly inventive since her arrival at Corvo Bianco; there’s been periods like that, before, where they were too wrapped up in the sheer _feeling_ to adventure beyond simply finding pleasure in one another. Her skin is warm as he slides his hand over the sheer fabric of the dress, moving from Yennefer’s hip to the curve of her backside. 

Yennefer answers the gesture with a slight gasp. It breaks their kiss, giving Geralt the opportunity to move his mouth to her neck instead. Yennefer’s neck always entices him--the glimpse of the elegant column of it when her hair moves as she tilts her head; the way the black velvet of the choker she always wears contrasts with the paleness of her skin. Geralt feels her pulse under his mouth. She sighs, tilting her head.

The desire he feels is maddening; so much so that the few steps to the door of the house, where they’d find an oft-used chair, or even the back of the door, seems too far. The chaise is fine, and the trellis, and its flowers, are enough privacy. Yennefer will make noise, regardless--and maybe he will, too; the walls of the house will matter little, then.

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Yennefer lets Geralt know she’s seen the idea in his mind.

The lighter additions to Yennefer's wardrobe prove easier to divest. The dress bares Yennefer's shoulders, where Geralt touches, promptly following his hands with his mouth. The simple black cord lacing down the back is easily defeated one handed; Yennefer only huffs _once_ in impatience. 

He nips at her collarbone in retaliation, "I think _you've_ been the impatient one all along, Yen. You couldn't wait for me to take your clothes off."

A tug and the gown pools at Yennefer's feet. She reaches between them and palms his cock through his pants, laughing merrily when he inhales sharply.

 _"You_ don't seem inclined to wait."

"Never claimed I did."

A long game doesn't usually interest Geralt; he'll play one, if Yennefer desires it, but left on his own, he'd rather repeat the act more than once. Time with Yennefer could end with the dawn.

It's not night, though; it's afternoon. The sunlight is dappled on her skin, and Geralt has no need to rush. He kisses his way down her body, stopping to suck and bite at her nipples until Yennefer grabs his hair and gasps his name. Knowing he can improve, he kisses the underside of one breast before moving down the plane of her stomach and kneeling before her.

Geralt can't read her mind, but her heartbeat thunders in his ears, and the scent of her arousal overtakes him. She's slick when he touches her between her thighs, grows even more so when he enters her with two fingers. Yennefer is watching him when he glances up, violet eyes wide past the view of the underside of her breasts and the curls of her hair.

_I want to put my mouth on her, make her cry out._

“You don’t need an invitation,” Yennefer sounds breathless. 

It will be easy to tip her over the edge, give her what she craves. Geralt nudges her thighs apart with his other hand until he has enough room to work his tongue against her. Paired with his fingers, Yennefer quakes where she stands and cries out. 

_Barnabas will have heard that_ _if he’s within a hundred yards._

Geralt puts his hand on her hip to steady her, but doubts she’ll tumble down; Yennefer’s pride won’t let her. Slow strokes with his tongue will bring her the highest the quickest. Yennefer wrenches her hands into his hair in her pleasure, cries his name, but remains standing. Geralt pairs his mouth with curling the two fingers he still has inside her. 

_There’s no one else but her._ Every reaction is for him alone, and Geralt loves Yennefer all the more for each of them. If she rips out a handful or two of hair, there’s probably an incantation to remedy that.

The scream she lets out when she climaxes goes straight to Geralt’s cock. He’d been content, focused solely on Yennefer, but his clothes suddenly feel like tourniquets. The only warning that Yennefer is using magic is the faint vibration of the witcher medallion before all his clothes vanish.

“I don’t have the faculties,” Yennefer explains; when Geral stands, she wilts into his arms, and he holds her close, content with the feeling of skin against skin.

“Where’d you send them?”

“They landed on Barnabas’s head.” She reaches up and undoes the clasp on the medallion, dropping it next to her discarded book.

“He’ll be _thrilled._ ”

Yennefer traces the hard lines of his cock with the tip of her fingers. When Geralt jerks his hips, she circles him and strokes. “Take me,” she finally says when he’s overcome with want.

She sits on the chaise, bares herself, and watches him come to her. Years of bottled-up feelings threaten to claw their way out of his throat. From the first time Yennefer kissed him, Geralt knew that she was the end, and that no one would hold a candle to her.

“Heavens,” she whispers, “you’re all mush.” Yennefer holds out her hand, and Geralt lets himself be drawn to her.

“Stay out of my head if you don’t want to see it.”

“No, I want to see it.”

The chaise is wide enough for Yennefer to lay back, knees spread, and for Geralt to settle on top of her. Her eyes widen a fraction when he enters her, and she grips his upper arms tight enough to leave an impression of her fingers. She’s all around him, the closest they can get--even Yennefer in his mind can’t match this connection.

“ _Yen._ ”

Geralt isn’t Dandelion--no sonnet or tune is going to pour from his lips. Even a two-crown romance might be able to better articulate the feeling of thrusting into Yennefer and having her answer by wrapping a leg around him and kissing anything she can reach. She sighs when he moves, slowly, and digs her nails into his shoulder blades when he quickens his thrusts. 

He wants to make it _last_ , but between Yennefer and the sunlight there’s too much warmth.

Yennefer puts a hand on his back to slow his pace. The hand moves lower, and if she wants to grab his ass, well, that’s fine. “It’s not a race,” she says, clearly entertained.

“I keep thinking something awful is going to fucking show up and ruin this.” He drops his forehead to her shoulder, breathing heavy, inhaling the scent of lilacs and gooseberries. Yennefer strokes his hair.

“I know,” she replies, “but I _think_ we might be uninterrupted, for once.” 

“A week in a cottage?”

“Three, so far,” she answers shifting her hips in a way that takes him deeper and makes him shudder. “Go again, but _slow._ ”

Geralt lets Yennefer guide the pace, sinking into her each time and letting her envelope him in her scent and the soft noises that leave her. She keeps a hand in his hair, and they kiss once more, languid and unhurried. The new pace gives Geralt the chance to wind her tighter until she climaxes again, his name yelled in exaltation. No amount of slowness or finesse could prevent Geralt from following Yennefer over that edge. He says her name, loud enough that if anyone hadn’t heard her, they’d _definitely_ hear him. Once the aftershocks leave him, Yennefer starts laughing, causing Geralt to bury his face into her shoulder.

He may not blush, but Yennefer certainly _feels_ his embarrassment.

Usually, Geralt tries to conjure pretty thoughts in this moment. He doesn’t want to burden her with whatever tumult of emotions are swirling around in his head. This time, his mind is only filled with a pleasant, mindless humming borne of being utterly sated.

“You’re not thinking of waterfalls and sunsets,” she teases.

“I’m too spent,” he replies.

Yennefer strokes his hair once more, “Think of me, then.”

Geralt does as he’s bid, and let’s all of his dreams of Yennefer, of the two of them, pour from his mind. None of them are new, but he’s never gifted them to her before in a moment where both of them are the most defenseless. It’s so peaceful that he closes his eyes and rests against her. Yennefer starts humming, some tune Dandelion wrote about the love between a witcher and a sorceress; Geralt blocked the verses from memory, except that they were _absurd_.

“Yen,” he says after a comfortable patch of silence, “Live with me.”

It’s a moment before she responds. Geralt keeps thinking _witchers don’t get to have this_ , and he knows Yennefer is thinking about all the things being a sorceress denied her. They have Ciri, though, and each other, and he has real estate.

“I already am,” she’s definitely smiling, “Did you miss the signs while you were buried in your moping?”

Yennefer manifests a blanket out of thin air, and even though it’s too warm for any covering, it somehow feels cooler than the air or her still-heated skin. It's _nice_ \--simple and uncomplicated, like nothing ever has been.

“Magic has its uses,” he says instead of answering her question. 

“Many uses--like portals to quickly travel from one distant place to another."

"You'll have to do better than that to convince me portals aren't a disaster waiting to happen.”

"When some problem inevitably needs solved, or someone needs saving, a portal will get us back here faster when the business is complete."

Weeks atop Roach to get back to Toussaint versus a hop through a portal. "That's the best use yet; I might be able to suffer one for that... occasionally."

"The other option is telling anyone who needs us to fuck off," Yennefer shrugs against the cushion. "It'd have to be _quite_ a sum of coin to get me to leave, or someone I don't hate."

"I like that, too."

Geralt kisses her again just to show her how much.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what everyone thought! ❤️


End file.
